


Consummate

by Begone



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cuckolding, Edited after publishing sorry!, Other, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, aether + physical sex, its a spiritual cuck, religious under and overtones, tempered character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Begone/pseuds/Begone
Summary: Cut me up, primitive, I'll die like a slaveRiding the wings of that Jesus snake
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Zodiark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19
Collections: August Novel Pairing Challenge 2020





	Consummate

Architect was his title, to design his mandate. He built cities, civilizations. Laid the foundations with cracks that he would later exploit. Carved paths that would last millennia, legacies that would last til the end of time.

Design, model, approve. That was his repertoire.

Not _beget_.

He had weaseled his way out of the beast with two backs time and time again. Played stage manager instead of lead. Watch the gears turn, actors set in place. Lean back and watch his plot come to a boil, reduce into a perfectly flawed concoction to conduct calamity.

Be it so that was always the case.

There came times when he couldn’t simply conduct from the shadows, when events needed an omniscient touch. When actors retired too soon or the stage was not quite right. And he loathed it every time. 

More still, did he loathe walking as _equal_ to the sundered, treating them much like those they shattered from. Remnants left of tattered egos, only a part of ornate masterwork. And sometimes he could recognize part of a soul. Those were the days he was an anchor in his bed, unmoving for days, stolen flesh rendered useless.

If acting amongst the sundered was one hell, becoming their king was another. At first he found the idea genial enough, to lord over the lesser and guide them towards a fuller existence...

Until he was expected to produce an heir.

The societal pressure smacked him straight in the psyche. Why was he expected to raise a child? Could he not _appoint_ an heir? Lead burned as it sunk in his throat, a fish hook deep in his stomach at how those he thought ally so easily capitulated to blood.

It made little _sense_. A child could be anything, anyone. Because it had sprung from his loins, a squalling infant was their savior? They would deify that which could become tyrant? Exalt one because of birth, not of their own merit? It spun his senses, forced him into a furor.

That calamity came early, king dying without heir. Bannersmen left to their bloody ways, fighting for the void he once occupied. Allies but a fortnight ago, enemies at the morrow. Like _dogs_. Not _men_. 

And he thought his opinion on the sundered couldn’t surpass _abyssal_.

The second time he gained regency, he took a wife. If she were not sundered, perhaps he could have loved her. Emet-Selch was an accomplished actor, and her affable personality made their romance passable. Enjoyable, even, at times. A lovely story to be a footnote in history books, til time ablated all but the most pertinent details.

Yet, for how sweetly he could croon poems of devotion, or whisper ribald promise, when it came time to put his gil where his mouth lay... he couldn’t. Cold feet upon what should have been a night of consummation, a careening trainwreck behind closed doors.

Conversation quieted. A distance began to yawn between them. And in society of eld, such apprehension to sex wouldn’t create this. Just another nail into the coffin of the sundered, another point in their starscape of faults.

She hid the contraceptive tea well, but he knew the smell of the plant. ‘Exotic Meracydian herbs’ they were not, but it was easy to play the fool, ro drink and hear the giggles when he closed the door. So much for _devotion_.

Conversation was stale, almost as if read from a script. No passion, only simple greetings and court appearances. Both of them learned how to hide their faults, all the cracks that could be pulled. The march of time and threads of webs could not be stopped, however. Allag would have its heir, and Emet-Selch had to drink himself to stupor to accomplish it.

Alcohol was a strange chemical. It burned his throat, clouded his mind, made his body act leadened in a novel way. It was an effect he purposefully chose, making it easier to accept what he must do, and if medical papers read true, ultimately avoid further disgust.

Allag received its damnable heir. The public celebrated the child like the second coming of Zodiark. Little did they know not a drop of his vessel’s blood ran within it.

Imbeciles. The lot of them.

Yet that was what made their plans work damnably well.

Death is a relief, a shrugging off of tired flesh, a return to the aetherial sea. To be with peers in their full power, to indulge in temporarily-forgotten ideals. Ideals now alien to the mortal masses, ideals that were shattered into seven-by-two.

Lahabrea and Elidibus understood him, had grown up in a society that made _sense_. A world not yet corrupted by nigh-bestial instinct and desires. They were comfort. And, for a time, the sundered Ascians were too. He had hope for them, that memories would restore their reason.

\---

“Emet- _cuck_ ,” Nabriales crooned, nasally laugh grinding in his ears, proving in an instant that even those uplifted were still invariably stained by this fractured world.

“That doesn’t even rhyme,” The contempt drips like venom, glare paralytic. By the grace of their god, Nabriales would live.

The wretch cleared his throat and backed away, no doubt to gossip and indulge in further sin. Hopefully with better humor.

\---

Another role to play, another empire built to fall. Elidibus wants to set gears in motion, and Emet-Selch is happy to oblige. It already exhausts him. A nice rest at the end, that is all he needs. Once the Garlean Empire was set in motion, the reins would pass and he may slumber alone.

Yet, Nabriales’ terrible jabs echo in his mind. Perhaps this world corrupted him too.

The building of this Empire is one he relishes. Teaching what should be elementary basics, surprising the world with something as simple as an _engine_. Creating was something he still could find a speck of joy in, even if it would be ultimately used to wage war.

(And by now his view is solid, naivete hardened to jaded callousness. Let them kill each other, slaughter themselves for the thrill of it. He cared not.) 

Once again he took an Empress, once again he knew the path he must walk. The tempered hooks in his soul caught on his wedding day, a pulse of warmth when all he knew was chill. It was... pleasant, ticking his lips to a genuine smile for the first time in ages. Acting as proud groom went fluidly, a once-leadened step now adorned with a small bounce.

Had Zodiark deigned to give him blessing, dark succor for the sordid task ahead? A hand to lift the veil afore his eyes, cast clarity through the dour tones of centuries.

The regal fanfare straightened his back. Each step landed with perfect ease. His soul burned with pride and cold flame, humming deep with divine assent. Was his efforts noticed? Did Zodiark stir for him alone? A grin split his face, meant for none in the room.

The void within his aether stirred gently, taking stock at the fringes of his will. To the sundered, his aura was invisible. To Zodiark, it was paradise. Every fiber of him was His. It curled at the back of his mind, toyed at the fringes of his aether. Pulled the ends like locks of hair, skittering an almost-forgotten touch into his soul.

Manna from heaven, a balm to his wounds. Invisible motions that the unworthy shall never see; for he, the devout, the pious, the martyr, to bask and witness. His deliverance upon serpentine wings, a swell he rode, a smile he gave.

Awareness is given in waves of violet, his soul adrift in groggy stasis. He is held and supported, weak flesh bolstered, suffused with crystalline dark. It lifts, empowers, makes his voice boom.

 _State them to me_ , his soul reverberates, shakes his bones, hums in his marrow.

“I, Solus Galvus, take you to be my —” true _god_ , one _god_ , _only_ merciful power that be; _his_ savior and the star’s.

Flesh says words, sharp and guttural, organic and fallible. His soul shines with the chime of a language long forgotten, long dead. Language of the canticle, a name as sharp as crystal facet. Name that bites into his soul and mind, burns brighter than the aether.

“— To have and to hold, for better and for worse—”

Until his body breaks, until his aether runs dry. Each vow bites deeper into his soul, ancient hooks flared to exuberant heat. His nerves flare into liquid metal, melting after ages of petrifaction. No longer is he aware of the world around him, for all that there is Zodiark and his pall. He ascends and descends, a roller coaster of the soul, one step after the other, lighter than air.

Wedded forever, til death do them part, twelve thousand years ago. And reaffirmed twelve seconds ago. 

Rings are but physical toys, as effervescent as the sundereds’ words. To be devout is to give the soul, to have every pulse, every tick of aether, every divine breath upon the back of his neck resound within and reverberate the rapture of obsequience.

The day passes in violet, his eyes focused on immaterial. Wisps that wrap about his hair, worm under regalia and pierce into his soul. Pulse with his heartbeat, chill like ice, calm his nerves and enflame his soul.

Time passes like a river, raging below placid surface. His mind yawns one way, Zodiark pulls him another, time slips like a fault. Speech echoes and his mind does not register, merely nods and smiles and chases hedonistic hues.

He walks, body on autopilot, tingling from head to heel. Scenes flash in his eyes, but they are but pinpricks in the gloom, phantoms of a reality that should never be. A waking nightmare he must face soon.

 _We have suffered enough_ , his head hazes and ripples with each word. He is slowly dragged to sea, baptized by the waves, each swell roaring in his ears. _Tonight we ease your pain_.

The words are a starburst in his soul, thrill of his God’s attention focused on him. The night is young and he is alone, flesh prickling in anticipation.

His excitement runs into vessel. Hands tear at regalia. So eager, a voice comments, blind to the grip he is in. He is eager, always eager, will become eager should he falter. She will never understand him. Never understand what was lost. Never understand the role she plays and the role he does.

Physical is a far cry from aetherial. His soul is gripped as he stalks a prone form, squeezed into the brightest of hues. He hunches like predator, gold eyes see violet, grips flesh to start his martyrdom anew.

Sensation skitters like dust motes, nails on his back bite deep. Claws in his flesh worm into his soul. He howls, bites neck, leaves marks of the divine violet hue. Friction pulls delicate between his legs, grounds the swimming heat in mind.

_Our summoner dearest, one of few we could save, how long have you done this, how long have you craved?_

His voice is breathless, bucking into heat, body under pressure and soul flared to fever pitch. Each arc flaring from his soul is ensnared and squeezed, pulling deep within him, sharp and doleful. He gasps through teeth, sweat beads at his back.

Every thrust brushes his flesh in a different kind of pressure. Zodiark kneads at his soul, goads him on, turns him frantic. One pleasure taps against the other, Emet-Selch trapped between both, teased into fury by human fingers and divine presence.

His new wife is but proxy for his god. Every motion, every fiber, is not for her. The pleasure he takes is worldly devotion to his and his alone. Masterful or not, he is deaf to cries of passion, more interested in how deep and hard he can go. How this body compares to his immortal soul.

It is Insignificant, pleasure six measures less that what courses through immaterial veins. Zodiark plays it with one finger, turns fulgent soul to shade. He is wanted, needed, pitied by his god. It is all he needs as his soul is plucked, flare by flare, aftershocks reverberating through him.

_A good subject, follower of the bloodiest path. Your hands are stained in crimson, but in violet shall you pass._

Again his soul soars, Zodiark’s attention on him in full. He burns delightfully, flesh surpassing mortal limits, a grounding buzz that he refuses to release. Not yet, not until Zodiark’s claws grant him reprieve. They card his hair, stain aether violet, mark him like he craves. 

His lips mouth the edge of a shoulder, laves tongue on flesh like he so desperately wants to do to crystal.

_Focus to us, to our bond. You do Our work, angel of mine. You speak the truth that once echoed in halls. You are Our Word, feathers plucked by luminescent wretch, and We shall restore them shard by shard, til you fly with the silk of stars._

He strains for the words, cries for the promise. His Lord offers so much, and he can never hope to compare. The Ardor cannot come fast enough, but he may soon. His soul yearns for more, needs more, after twelve thousand years of blind faith and unyielding effort. Zodiark’s claws pull him close, carves the aether-flesh that is His. His soul can hear the thrum of aether, the heartbeats of thousands from light-years away.

His trickery cannot last long. Flesh, even under Zodiark’s auspice, shall exhaust itself. And one day it shall be whole, transcending mortality back to the perfection that was lost.

 _We have ignored you too long._ His body comes into focus, phantom claws rake his back. A voice rings in his ears, the cries of a woman in her third-odd rapture fading out. His body stills, a hand, eyes seeing but crystalline phantom, caresses. To hold, one day, is nigh. Spiritual touch is what he must suffer, but he can pretend. The claw that lances his mind lets him pretend.

And he kisses deep, tasting aether cold and vast. Soul blossoms with heat, flowers that bloom with the moon. And flesh contracts, rises to harmonize with soul, a small ripple against a vast ocean.

 _Dream, rest, bask. We shall not let you walk this path alone_.

Emet-Selch gasps as his soul snaps to shape, Zodiark no longer warping it ‘round his thumb. Solus zos Galvus comes, body pushed to breaking and then some. Exhaustion rolls through him in waves, aether sharp but mind numbed. It throbs, pleasantly, the elation of an answered prayer quaking flesh.

No longer alone. His brand flares cold in his chest, sleep roiling in his mind. Perhaps now he could stomach such dalliances, should aid come again.

 _And will come again_.

**Author's Note:**

> Canonically this dude had kids. Plural. Someone had to take the wheel.


End file.
